


Catch, Recover, Glide

by anotherhappydinosaur



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Boat Race, M/M, Oxford, Rowing, Teenlock, Unilock, crew - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 01:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13447824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherhappydinosaur/pseuds/anotherhappydinosaur
Summary: John Watson is finally back at Oxford. With rugby no longer a possibility, he agrees to fill in a spot on the rowing team. Their fill-in coxswain, Sherlock, is both infuriating and utterly brilliant. Can Sherlock help his recovery both in the boat and in his life?





	Catch, Recover, Glide

John walked purposefully through campus, avoiding crowds of students chatting over coffees on their way to lectures. He wasn’t late- his ex-army officer father had always told him, “Nothing good comes from being late,” but his own military service had trained him to walk with intention. 

 

The mornings were starting to get cooler, and the leaves on the trees just beginning to turn. He had always loved brisk autumn mornings, the quiet chirping of birds and stillness in the air. They were even more spectacular at Oxford, colourful trees posed against a backdrop of gracefully aged buildings. He had missed this in his two years away. Like most of the students surrounding him, he had taken it all for granted once, an attitude he did not intend to repeat

 

“John! John Watson!” a familiar voice called from across the way. Mike Stamford, his friend from secondary school and fellow medical student, scrambled excitedly across the path.

 

“Hello, Mike!” John said with a grin, sticking his arm out for a handshake. Mike took his hand, but pulled him in for a half hug.

 

“So good to see you, John! I heard you were back, and living at Exeter, too! How I’ve missed running into you before I have no idea, but I’m thrilled that you’re back in one piece!”

 

“I’ve only been back a day, so I’d be surprised if you _had_ seen me,” John responded, smiling.  


“And you made it here that quickly? Well, then! You haven’t changed a bit. Missed the madness, did you?”  


“Perhaps a bit,” he replied politely. His time in Afghanistan was stressful, and to be honest, he missed the _calm_ of academia, the safety of exploring medical emergencies in terms of speculations and theories, not actualities, not the blood spurting from his friend’s femoral artery, eyes rolling back, explosions sounding deceptively far away. His smile turned to something more like a grimace, and he quickly changed the subject.

 

“How’s the team this season?” he asked, eager for something safer to talk about.

  
“Rugby? Oooh, it’s been a tight one, but then again, it always is! Do you plan on joining up again?”

 

“Not after…” he paused, struggling to find the right description for what happened. The accident? Well, it wasn’t supposed to happen to him, but the other side sure intended for it to happen. The-bomb-that-went-off-killing-my-squad-and-launching-me-into-a-wall-leaving-me-with-severe-head-trauma-and-lifetime-of-guilt? Too long. No, there wasn’t a good way to say it.

 

Mike shifted, still smiling, but knowing he had unintentionally pushed him into uncomfortable territory. “Head still recovering?” he asked politely, trying to avoid the painful reminder of the real reason John was back.

 

It had been all over the papers. John wasn’t sure if he was glad, since it meant he didn’t need to explain, or if it made things worse, with everyone thinking they knew what had happened. After brief conversations with his family, he had decided to avoid the topic with everyone but his therapist. The look of pity in their eyes had only made things worse. Their hearts were always in the right place, but that didn’t make it any less painful.

 

“Doctors say no more contact sports for me, ideally _ever._ Guess that means I’ll just have to spend some more time cheering with you at the pub, eh?” he replied, forcing a laugh for good measure.

  
“There’s always room for one more at The Lighthouse!” Mike replied, grinning. “Well, if rugby is out, I heard Greg is looking for someone to fill a spot in the men’s 8 for the regatta next weekend. You were a pretty good rower before you switched over to rugby, weren’t you?”

 

Pretty good was an understatement, John thought. Given his size- too short to be successful in the open category, but too heavy to row as a light weight, he certainly wasn’t destined for success in small boats. But throw him in with seven other men, and he could make a boat _move_.

  
“Rowing? I honestly haven’t thought about that in ages. Yeah, rugby definitely had its draw, but rowing could be a good way to clear my head. Well, if you see Greg, let him know that I’m interested. Good seeing you, Mike, but I best be off. Trying to sort out schedules and such. Care to meet tonight for dinner at the Hall?”

  
“Sounds excellent. See you later, Watson! Glad to have you back.”

 

* * *

 

 

When he arrived at the Hall for dinner, he was surprised to see Greg Lestrade waving him over.

  
“John! So good to have you back, mate!” he exclaimed, giving him a hearty pat on the back. John smiled and nodded to Mike, who was standing to his left. He must’ve already told Greg about their earlier meeting.

  
“Oooooh! John!” called a small voice, running over to him. Molly Hooper had him in an embrace before he knew what hit him.

  
“How are you doing?” she asked. The concern and understanding in her eyes felt deeper than anyone’s attempts at empathy since his return.  


“I’m doing better,” he replied, giving her a soft smile painted with a slightest ache of pain. He knew better than to give her anything less than honesty. She smiled at him, squeezing him tightly before opening the door to the dining room.

 

He had really missed his friends, he realised. While it was true this had been his first full day back at Oxford, he had been in London for several months, but had been too afraid to tell anyone he knew. Things had been hard, and he wasn’t ready to talk, but now that he was surrounded by the people who cared about him, he realised how much he had missed his life here.

 

They grabbed plates of food and sat down at a long dining table. The meals were especially lavish at the beginning of term, but John hadn’t felt hungry in weeks. He picked at his tiny servings as the group asked him about his time away, focusing on all the pleasant bits, out of respect rather than politeness, not wanting to push him too soon.

 

They quickly caught him up on the happenings back at Oxford and Exeter- the sports updates, drama in Mike’s relationships, Greg’s third change in advisor, and Molly’s verbal altercation with the anatomy professor. They laughed and smiled, and John felt the weight on his shoulders lift, if only for a moment.

 

They stayed at the table talking long after everyone else had left the dining hall. Molly yawned. “I’d best get to bed, but it’s so lovely to have you back, John! I’ll see you tomorrow morning! Did I tell you I’m assisting with your anatomy lecture?”  


“Wow, that’s great, Molly!” John smiled. He and Molly had met during his first round of anatomy before he was deployed mid-term. Her announcement stirred a feeling he couldn't quite place. It seemed wrong that his life had paraded ahead without him, that his classmates were graduating and taking up careers. Walking around the campus had given him the illusion that nothing had changed, that he had traveled back two years ago when things still felt open and new and full of possibility.

 

“I’d best be off too,” Mike chimed in. John hugged them and waved as they made their way down the hall. Only Greg remained, looking jittery as he waited for John to be alone.

 

“Now, I know you’ve only just gotten back, and I’m sure you have a thousand things to get sorted, but I am _desperately_ in need of a man to fill a seat for the regatta with St. Johns next Saturday. One of our men is out with a sprained ankle, and to be honest with you, hardly any of the novices are showing promise. If there is any, _any_ chance at all that you might be willing to- “

  
“Sure.” John cut into Greg's story with a smile. After everything he’d been through, now more than ever he realised how little time he really had. Rowing a boat for a friend? Why not. Maybe it would be good for him.

  
“Sure? Really?! John, you are a GREAT man,” he said clapping him on the back again, grinning from ear to ear. “Meet us at the boathouse tomorrow morning at 5 am. I’d best get to bed- definitely need to be well-rested to deal with our substitute coxswain tomorrow. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em- am I right John?” he said, still grinning.  
  
John wished Greg a good night and walked outside for a final breath of cool air before making his way to his room and slipping into bed.

 

* * *

 

John awoke on the first buzz of his alarm. He had hardly slept, fading in and out of troubled dreams involving his friends and the war. He lay still for a moment, letting his heart rate recede before sliding out of bed and pulling on some rowing trou he had placed on his desk the previous night. He pulled on a tracksuit, grabbed his keys, and walked out the door.

 

Once outside, he began to jog toward the river. While he had never been inside, his usual running route through town passed right by the College Boathouses, and so he knew exactly where to go. The lights and movement inside seemed out of place in the stillness of the sleeping town. He found the right building and slowed to a walk, following two men wearing Exeter jackets through the door.

 

The inside of the boathouse was a flurry of activity. Shells sat on racks six boats high, with smaller boats suspended from the ceiling by elaborate pulley systems. There was a wall of mirrors on one side of the room with sixteen ergometers lined up in front of it. His stomach flipped as he saw them, memories of the torturous workouts inflicted upon him in his earlier youth. On the other wall hung what seemed like endless sets of oars. The side of the building closest to the river was made up of several massive garage doors, all opened for access to the large dock outside.

 

Aside from a few curious glances, hardly any of the people inside noticed the stranger in their presence. John watched as boats of all sizes were directed out from the racks, into slings on the dock, and into the water. It was all so organized- a smaller man, the coxswain, was in charge of shouting the commands to the larger rowers, who followed without a sound. The rigidity reminded him a bit of the military. Perhaps that was why he had been so successful there, he thought.

 

He watched individuals and pairs grab their single and double sculls, and larger line-ups carry the 4 and 8-man shells to the water. It was sort of stunning, he thought, watching the boats pushing off of the dock and out to the river, their figures silhouetted against the deep blue of early twilight.

 

“John!” he heard Greg call. He turned and walked over to see him standing with a group of 6 other men. This must be his boat. “This is Phillip, Shane, Rob, Kennick, Michael, and Tristan.” He rattled off the names too quickly for John to register. “I’m stroke, you’ll sit seven. You do row starboard?”

  
  
“Better than port, I imagine, after this summer,” he said. His left shoulder had recovered from its dislocation far more quickly than his head, but he still didn’t have the range of motion he used to. Either way, starboard had always been his preference.

 

“Excellent. Now I’ve got to go find Sherlock so we can get out on the water already. Bastard only seems to show up when he’s good and ready.”

 

“G _ooo_ d morning,” came a deep voice, as if on cue. John looked around to see a tall, thin man standing next to Lestrade.

 

While most of the men Greg had introduced him to were exactly what you’d expect from rowers- tall, muscular thighs and torsos, athletic haircuts- this man was glaringly different. His dark, curly hair framed a pale face with sharp features. He hardly looked old enough to be at Uni- he must be barely 18, thought John. The microphone around his head indicated that he must be their coxswain. He looked far too tall to even fit in the coxswain’s seat, but he was incredibly thin, and must be very light.

 

“Alright, Sherlock, let’s get to it,” Greg said, with something less than enthusiasm.

  
John watched the other men roll their eyes. Before he had time to figure out why, the familiar, “Hands on” call rang out. He followed the other men to the boat and wrapped his arms around it. “Out of racks,” came the next call. “Up overheads, ready, UP! Walk it out of house.”

  
The men lifted the boat, carried it out to the dock, and rolled it into the water. They grabbed their oars, locking them into the riggers. “Send oars,” rang their coxswain’s voice. “One foot in, lean away and press off.”

  
As soon as they were on the water, John suddenly felt overwhelmed. Maybe he shouldn’t have jumped into a boat this quickly. Maybe a day inside on the ergos would have been better for getting back into it. Did he even remember how to hold an oar? Was this all a terrible mistake?

  
“We will begin the warmup with stern four. Sitting ready at the release, arms and body only, ready, _row_.” _Well_ , John thought, _no turning back now_. He watched Greg’s body sitting in front of him, and matched his movements as he dropped his blade into the water at the catch, swung his body backwards, and tapped his hands down to pick the blade up out of the water at the finish. _Maybe this isn’t so bad,_ he thought again.

 

“In two, lengthen to half slide. That’s one, two,” came the voice again. John added a slight bend of his knees to lengthen the stroke, moving together with Greg, each stroke feeling a bit more natural. “And in two, take it to full slide.” _Keep your hands level, slight rotation into the catch, accelerate the handle into the body._ Just as John’s internal monologue began, their coxswain started to make comments of his own.

 

“Anderson, you’re catching late…  
Yes, still late…  
Oh, come on, Anderson, you’re throwing off the rhythm of the entire boat!” Sherlock said, sounding irritated.

 

“I am _not_!” came an angry voice from behind him. Phillip, was it? _Mate, you are definitely catching late,_ John thought.

 

Their row continued mostly smoothly. For the most part, Sherlock gave very good advice.  
“Wilson, you’re squaring up too late. Yes, there... Better.”  
“Chapman, hold the forward body angle for a moment longer.”  
“Seven seat, relax the left shoulder. Head up, eyes forward, breathe.”

 

Occasionally, however, his words dripped with frustration.

“Smith, keep your head in the boat. I don’t care how many women’s crews we pass, the more you turn your head, the slower we go, and the less likely it is you’ll have a medal to inspire one of them to actually go home with you.”

John snorted.

 

Since it was John’s first day back, they did a simple steady-state row, a chance for the eight of them to feel each other’s strokes and begin to adapt to this new rhythm. Every time John got caught up in his own head, Sherlock would tell him to relax, to breathe, to sit tall. After an hour and a half on the water, the sun was finally above the horizon, and the coxswain turned their boat around back to the club. He docked the boat, very skilfully, John thought, given the modest head wind that had developed over the course of the morning, and the crew climbed out. They put the boat back into its rack, hung up their oars, and gathered in a circle as was customary to discuss the row.

 

“Excellent work, fellows, and a special thanks to John Watson for filling in for us today,” Greg started. The other rowers grinned, and patted him on the back.

  
“Good row, mate,” said a tall, muscular blonde man. Tristan, was it? He had been sitting 5 seat and had been berated by their coxswain numerous times for rushing the release.

  
“Yeah, thanks, you too,” replied John.

 

“How long have you been rowing?” asked a jovial brunet. Smith, was it? The one who couldn’t keep his eyes off the women’s crews. Kennick, John remembered from Greg’s earlier introduction.

 

“He rowed for at least four years. Lots of raw power, but not the right size to excel in the single. Quit to join… hmm, must’ve been rugby, judging by the calves and swagger in his stride. Definitely more success with the ladies after that. Perhaps you should take a hint from him, Kennick.”

  
“Shut up, Sherlock,” Kennick said with a grin, pulling him into a headlock and rubbing his knuckles aggressively through Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. “What made you decide to join up again?” Kennick asked.

 

“After recent head trauma, he’s been instructed to avoid all contact sports, so rugby is out. Perhaps you lot might have a chance at the cup after all,” Sherlock said with a smirk, looking pointedly at Anderson.

 

“How did you...?” John asked, glancing back and forth between Sherlock and Greg.

 

Greg shrugged his shoulders. “He’s just… like that,” he said with a smile, folding his arms as he looked over at Sherlock, who was readjusting his curls, his microphone now in his hand.

  
“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked, looking John directly in the eye.

  
“How…?”

 

“Sherlock, leave the poor man alone. Let’s talk about today’s row. I thought we were catching well together. Low stroke rate, so tough to say how it’ll translate at a higher speed, but the consistency was there,” Greg remarked. Several of the men nodded back.

  
“If Anderson could simply adjust his timing, there might actually be a chance you wouldn’t come in last on Saturday. And Fairbanks, you seem to have a fundamental misunderstanding of the purpose of the feather. It is not a manoeuvre to allow you to _throw_ the blade forward, flapping like an _aeroplane_ , but a critical motion that allows you to avoid-“  


Greg groaned. “Alright, alright, thank you, Sherlock.” He lifted his arm to block the two angry men from launching themselves at Sherlock. “Ergos tonight at 6. Don’t be late.” With that, the tired crew split into groups, chatting as they walked away. “Sherlock, John, wait here just a moment. I need you both to sign some paperwork”

 

Greg walked away, leaving John alone in the boathouse with Sherlock. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” he said, extending his pale hand toward John.

  
“John Watson,” he replied, still somewhat in awe. He noted thick calluses on Sherlock’s hands. Certainly not from coxing. Was he a rower, too?

 

“Your stroke is very good, especially considering you haven’t been in a boat in years. I can see that your shoulder injury still limits your rotation, but a small amount of concentration on engaging the musculature of the lower back will keep your posture strong enough that you can avoid slouching into the catch.”

  
  
“Thanks, I’ll… keep that in mind.” John wasn’t sure if he should be offended or flattered. He really wasn’t sure what to make of this man.

 

“Alright, Sherlock, this one’s for you. Says you’re good to go coxing this weekend. John, ready to sign your soul away?” Greg asked, grinning. 

  
“I’m not sure how well I’ll do on the ergos, but I guess it’s inevitable,” he smiled back.

 

Sherlock signed the paper without reading it, and as he began to walk away, his phone rang from inside his pocket. He sighed dramatically before answering, “How many times do I have to tell you that I have absolutely no interest in assisting you?...  
You don’t even row, why on earth do you care which college I’m representing?...  
No, that implies I feel some sentimental loyalty to a college I have no personal connection to...  
Your aristocratic elitism is simply repulsive. I am off to my lectures, now do _not_ call this number again, or I will have you blocked.” The door slammed behind him as he left the building.

  
“Yeah, that’s how he always is,” Greg replied to the questions in John’s face. “He’s actually a brilliant rower. One of the top in the light weight single in the whole country, and only 17. Refuses to race, though. Genius of a man, too. Got into Oxford at age 15, and his brother Mycroft pulled some strings so that he could live at St. John’s College.”

 

Ahh, so he was as young as he looked. “Does he row for St. John’s?”

 

“Mycroft assumed he would row for them, keeping up their impressive legacy, but he managed to piss of everyone on the crew, probably intentionally, now that I think about it, and so they won’t have him row with them. He takes his own single out every day, though, probably headed there right now.”

 

“Why is he coxing for us, then?”

 

 “Well, the annual regatta between Exeter and St. Johns happens next weekend, and St. Johns has won in the 8s for the past twenty years. I did manage to get him out of some trouble after what could very generously be considered an ‘accident’ in the chemistry lab, and so he owes me a favour. Kennick’s known the family for years, and is one of the few who can actually tolerate Sherlock, and asked if he’d step in after our last coxswain quit. But knowing Sherlock, it likely has more to do with the desire to piss off his brother than it does with helping either of us. Despite what he says, he must see _some_ potential in our boat, otherwise he wouldn’t bother wasting his time sitting in the coxswain seat. Anyway, thanks for coming, and I’ll see you tonight for ergos.”

  
“Yeah, thanks, see you later,” John replied, walking out of the building, wondering what he’d gotten himself into.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yay! First fic! Excited for what is to come!


End file.
